(Carm. I., 5.) What slim youth, whose love-locks flow
Wet with unguents, courteth thee,
Pyrrha, where the roses blow,
And the rocks cool shadows throw
On the grotto floor below?

Tell me, tell me, who is he
For whom now thou bind'st thine hair—
Hair of gold, so witchingly
With that artful, careless care?

  ― 194 ―
Ah, how oft he shall bewail
Broken vow and gods estranged!—
Unaccustomed to the gale
Blackening the erst sunny sea,—
Marvel that the sea is changed!—

He who now so trustingly
Finds in thee a golden joy,—
Ever lovely, ever free,—
From love of all save him for ever—
Poor silly boy!
Hopes that thou—that thou—wilt be;
And thinketh never
How soon arise
Fiercest storms in fairest skies!

Wretched they, to whom thou seemest
Bright for aye, as now thou gleamest!—
Thou no more hast power o'er me—
Votive slab on sacred wall

Tells how I most gratefully,
To the God who rules the sea,
Hung my dripping garments there;
For he listened to my call,
Ere I sank, he heard my prayer—
I no longer think thee fair!


(Carm. I., 23.) Like a fawn with silly terrors
Of the wood and of the wind,
Seeking o'er the lonely mountains
For its dam, the startled hind;—

When the breeze-tossed vine-leaves shudder,
When the bramble-bushes shake,
Rustled by the swift, green lizards,
Heart and knees are both a-quake;

Thus thou shunn'st me.—Tigers, Chloe,
Afric lions, aim at life;
I would take you from your mother—
Why?—'Tis time you were a wife?

  ― 195 ―


(Carm. III., 9.) H. As long as you loved me, and no arms but mine
Around your white neck might in ecstasy twine,
My heart felt as wealthy as wealthy could be—
E'en the King of the East seemed a pauper to me!

L. As long as you loved with unflickering flame,
And no Chloe 'twixt you and your Lydia came,
My fame mounted far, far above every other—
I wouldn't have changed e'en with Remus's mother!

H. Pretty Chloe of Crete, my bosom now sways—
Oh, how softly she sings, and how sweetly she plays!
If her bright, sunny life could be saved by my death,
For her I would willingly breathe my last breath!

L. Son of Thurian Ornithus, Calaïs dear,
For thee—burning, also—my love burneth clear;
If the Fates would but spare the sweet, beautiful boy,
Two deaths for my darling I'd reckon a joy?

H. But suppose that Love's Queen, by her son's cunning stroke,
Should bend our stiff necks once again to her yoke,—
What if golden-haired Chloe I eyed with disdain,
And my door were to open to Lydia again?

L. Then, though he is more beautiful e'en than a star,
And you than a floating cork fickler by far,
Than Adria more fierce, when it mounts to the sky—
With you I would live, and with you I would die!